Friday, June 1, 2018




She descended from the picture
to sit down on her
empty chair.
Her geographic tongue
kept silence.
She was in the middle
of nowhere. Her
cubic dreams
dissolved in the reality of her
fashionable loneliness - a mask.

In the still air,
a bird like a huge cross
made of icy love brought

She took her personal diary
and started to jot down
phrases about
a life in pieces. Some old words
that have been
deposited there
looked like those dried leaves
of any herbarium.
Her diary was not green at all
while keeping safe
her unique love, longing for a little life -
two elementary cells
subsiding into a
biochemical contemplation,
seeds growing
in the humungous womb
of the earth
to become
future flowers.

On the retina of her eyes,
lost worlds
were still existent,
still green.

She looked into the mirror
to see the unseen.
She understood her death.

She would leave that space to go
somewhere where
she could hope against hope
to find a little happiness.
She would go, but
she did not.
She disappeared
into the picture.


Above the ocean,
the moon is not wet.
Yet, it is compared to those
soaked stones being
incapable of moving
when they're beaten
by the waves.

This jammed planet rises
above what we imagine
it's a range of vision,
but acquires no more than
a toadyish sense of perspective-
a congested outlook on
our breathing earth and on life
more often than not.

This moon doesn't have algae,
but it has memories of
what we mean by
intelligent artifacts-
stones left on shore
to wait for a kind of wind-up,
while not hoping,
not screaming for help, and
not dreaming any longer.

Only the poets still thirst for
what's beyond the full moon-
the dark side.
They need some imagination
to twist around
everything they cannot see,
but it's quite perceivable.


Love is not
what we are calling an object.
Yet, it is still an object.
It has functions & variables.
It is so fundamental
in the sense
of thinking
and builds peace.

Missing love is a suffering lion -
extended vowels
in the absence of The Lord.

Love needs shapes
to express itself -
wide, heavy words.
Sometimes, it continues
beyond the limits
in searching for happiness.
Maybe happiness is
a Bentham's principle,
but not an extended illusion
in a dream-
pleasures, pains, sexuality, morality.

It is hedonistic when it doesn't let us
realize what we ought to do
in order to be
what we need to be.

Love is an object
needing a language
to scream for freedom,
that kind of freedom giving
It is so ontic in the hands
of God
and makes us be children again-
His children.


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